


love sick.

by katarama



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Fraternity, Alternate Universe - Human, First Meetings, Flirting, Fluff, M/M, Sick Character
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-15
Updated: 2016-09-15
Packaged: 2018-08-15 03:32:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,952
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8040853
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/katarama/pseuds/katarama
Summary: In the summer, when Scott and Stiles signed their lease, they didn’t realize that their ideal location wasn’t as ideal as they thought.  It wasn’t until two weeks into the school year, when they started noticing the ubiquity of polo-and-khaki-wearing white dudes in snapbacks hovering near their apartment building, that they realized that maybe they had misjudged.  
The freshly-painted Greek letters went up onto the front of the house in the third week.  And then, the noise began.





	love sick.

**Author's Note:**

  * For [annie_reckson](https://archiveofourown.org/users/annie_reckson/gifts).



Scott’s head is throbbing.

He’s had a long day.  He’s had a long _week_.  He feels like the semester just started, but his professors are already starting to hint that the midterms are coming.  Taking an 8:30 AM bio class that meets three times a week is starting to seem like the worst idea he ever had, especially now that the days are starting to get shorter and the cold weather is starting to settle in.  

Scott is tired.  His whole body aches with it, and at the end of every day, his brain feels like mush from trying to batter itself against the brick walls that are tedious textbook readings and problem sets.  And then, because that wasn’t enough on its own, he picked up a cold from Kira, leaving him with a half-empty brand new box of tissues and a low-grade headache that won’t seem to fade no matter how much water he drinks.

And then, there are the neighbors.

When Scott and Stiles picked their apartment complex, they chose based on a number of factors: proximity to the main campus and the science center, proximity to free parking, proximity to fast food places open late.  The deciding factor, of course, was the price.  They were certain they got a good deal; the location was perfect and the price was right.  When they went to see the apartment and sign the lease, they almost couldn’t believe that it was as cheap as it was.  They searched everywhere for mold.  They checked to make sure it had wifi and a laundry room.  They checked to make sure it wasn’t a scam.  They checked that it actually was coming furnished.

Everything checked out, so they signed.

In the summer, though, they didn’t realize that their ideal location wasn’t as ideal as they thought.  It wasn’t until two weeks into the school year, when they started noticing the ubiquity of polo-and-khaki-wearing white dudes in snapbacks hovering near their apartment building, that they realized that maybe they had misjudged.  

The freshly-painted Greek letters went up onto the front of the house in the third week.  And then, the noise began.

Most of the time it doesn’t bother Scott.  He doesn’t care at all if the frat across the street has parties on the weekend.  He doesn’t care if they play their music loud; he has headphones, and he can block it out, for the most part.  Plus, Scott and Stiles are on the third floor, so it isn’t like they have to worry about dumbass frat bro freshmen trying to break into their apartment or give them trouble.

Today, though, he’s tired and sick, and the noise just draws attention to the pulsing throb of pressure in his sinuses.  Today, it’s a fucking Tuesday night during the school year, and Scott needs all the concentration he can muster to get through what’s left of his homework.

“I’m gonna wring their necks,” Stiles says.  He’s faring worse than Scott, with this whole party thing.  The noise distracts him, and distractions lead to more distractions lead to more distractions, with Stiles.  “I’m going to march over there and murder all of those little assholes.”

“They’re probably twice your size,” Scott points out, but it doesn’t deter Stiles.  

Even sick and miserable and exhausted, Scott is observant enough to recognize the determined gleam in Stiles’ eyes, that look that spells out that Stiles has a terrible idea that he’s going to go forward with, whether Scott wants him to or not.

“There are two of us,” Stiles says.  “If we go over and threaten to report them for making noise, they’ll stop.”

Scott is really, really positive that it doesn’t work that way, and he expresses his concerns to Stiles.  He expresses them the entire time Stiles gets his shoes and socks on, and the entire time it takes to head to the door and grab a set of keys, and the entire time Stiles drags him out of the apartment and locks the door behind them.  He gives up once they start down the stairs, because Stiles seems to want to make a Statement, and he somehow expects it to go well if the the two of them charge into a house full of drunk people three times their size to make a point about something that doesn’t really matter.

Scott thinks maybe he can cough on them, if it comes down to it, but that’s all he’s got.

“They should be more considerate,” Stiles says.  “You’re sick!  And they don’t know, there might be, like.  Old people!  Or students who have early classes who need to get to bed early.”

“I’m sure they’re just trying to have fun,” Scott says.  The closer they get to the frat house, the more his head feels like it’s going to explode.  He isn’t even that upset about the frat house.  It’s inconvenient, and not helping matters, but he doesn’t really care all that much.  And it’s something he and Stiles really should’ve expected, and probably would’ve found if they bothered to do a bit more research online.

“They aren’t allowed to have fun!” Stiles says, and Scott knows now that he’s just saying shit to be a dick.  It doesn’t really matter anymore - Stiles talked Scott all the way to the front of the frat house, to the door that Scott is pretty sure is actually shaking from the force of the music, and the overpowering stench of vomit and stale beer.

“Are you sure you don’t want to just file a noise complaint?” Scott asks, but that is putting too much faith in Stiles and his nonexistent trust in the campus police.

Stiles rings the doorbell.

Scott watches Stiles go through the process of puffing himself up.  He watches Stiles spread his legs a little to widen his stance and try to push his shoulders back, like he thinks it makes him look more intimidating.  He brings himself up from his usual slouch to full height, which admittedly _does_  make him look slightly more intimidating.  The way Stiles keeps tapping his fingers against the seam of his jeans doesn’t really help, and neither does Stiles biting his lips red, but it’s the thought that counts, right?

It takes almost a full minute before anyone opens the door, and Scott hopes the entire time that Stiles will take that as a sign that no one is going to answer, and that they should turn around and go back.  Stiles determinedly sticks it out, though, until the door creaks open, the noise almost inaudible over Ke$ha pouring out onto the street.

Scott didn’t know what he expected, but the guy who opens the door… isn’t it.  He’s tall; he looks about the same height as Stiles, but bulkier, the bulge of his biceps and abs faintly visible through the fabric of his tight, V-neck white tee.  He isn’t the frat bro Scott had envisioned; he isn’t white, for one, and there isn’t a polo shirt or a red solo cup or a backwards snapback or a pair of plaid shorts in sight.

He’s looking straight at Scott, his eyes doing a quick once-over, and Scott is suddenly wishing he had bothered to put on something a little bit nicer.  He feels acutely aware of the bulge of tissues in his pocket and the itching of his nose, the growing hint of an impending sneeze.  He probably looks like death.

The guy grins at him, his dimples prominent in his cheeks, and Scott’s heart thuds in his chest.

“I’m Danny.  You here for the party?” the guy asks, and Scott almost wants to abandon ship, to say yes and deal with Stiles’ indignance later.  Scott could say it was a Plan, to get close to Danny and infiltrate the Frat Bro Ranks to get them to stop, or something.

Scott can’t even maintain his chill for a minute, though.  The sneeze that has been building hits, and Scott’s eyes squeeze shut.  He rushes to get his sleeve in front of his face, because if his nose starts spewing snot in front of the hot guy, he’s never going to live it down.

“No, Scott feels terrible,” Stiles says.  “And your music is keeping him from getting his rest.”

It isn’t true.  Scott is hours of homework away from sleep.  But he doesn’t contradict Stiles.  He digs in his pocket for a tissue and blows his nose, knowing he probably looks every bit as pathetic as Stiles is painting him out to be.

“Scott doesn’t _look_  terrible,” Danny teases, apparently disagreeing.  Scott can see the moment Stiles starts catching on from the deep look of betrayal Stiles shoots him.  “Though he does look like he could use some cold medicine.”

“The grocery store is too far,” Scott says, his words coming out muffled and nasally.  

Danny just laughs.  “Wait right here,” he instructs them, and then he’s gone, the door shut behind him.

“You’re flirting with the enemy!” Stiles hisses, nudging Scott with his elbow.  “Flashing him with those terrible dimples of yours.”

“I think his dimples are deeper than mine,” Scott points out.  He blows his nose again and ignores Stiles’ narrow eyes.  “All I’ve done is sneeze, though, dude.”

Stiles and Scott go back and forth for a few more minutes.  Stiles moves on from disapproval to teasing and back again.  Scott feels a little bit woozy, and he really mostly wants to go back to his bed.  It’s warm out, and they’ve been standing there for a while.

He starts when the door opens up again.  Danny holds out an open box of Dayquil tablets, and Scott is so grateful he could kiss Danny.

“You can have the rest of it, use whatever you need,” Danny tells him.  “Jackson’s parents sent him with like 20 boxes of the stuff.”

“Thank you,” Scott says.  “And, uh.  Sorry.  About crashing the party.”  Scott can _feel_  the force of Stiles’ glare.

“Don’t sweat it,” Danny says.  He braces an arm against the door, his muscles becoming even more defined than before.  Scott can’t help but look; he’s only human, after all.  “If you want to pop by when you’re healthy enough to stick around a while…”

“Keep them on the weekends, and we’ll see,” Stiles says, and Scott doesn’t contradict him.  Scott does start to feel a little bit bad; he did derail Stiles’ plan, after all, and Stiles does have a valid complaint.  

“Can’t promise that,” Danny says.  “But I’ll do what I can to get the volume down some so Scott can get some sleep.”

“This should help with that,” Scott says, holding up the Dayquil box.  “Thanks, dude.”

* * *

 

Danny follows through, and by the time Scott and Stiles get back to their apartment, the music is barely audible, just a dull background noise.  It pacifies Stiles, enough that he doesn’t tease Scott too badly.

Scott opens up the box to grab two Dayquil, but when he pulls out the packaging, he notices something.  There’s a bright yellow post-it stuck to the foil, a name and a number scrawled on it in black marker.  Stiles groans when he sees it, but it warms Scott from the inside, and as soon as he’s popped the cold meds out of the packaging and gulped them down with a long drink from his water bottle, he adds the number to his phone.

“it’s scott, thanks again!!” he sends to Danny.

“any time ;)” Danny sends back.

Scott may have been a little bit annoyed by the frat before.  But somehow, Scott has a feeling he’s going to be taking Danny up on his offer to spend some more time there anyway.

**Author's Note:**

> On tumblr [here](http://sleepy-skittles.tumblr.com).


End file.
